


magic island (our start line)

by littleyeonbin



Category: TOMORROW X TOGETHER | TXT (Korea Band)
Genre: Coming of Age, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Slice of Life, Yeonbinficfest2021
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:40:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29178123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleyeonbin/pseuds/littleyeonbin
Summary: In which Choi Soobin is real, and Choi Yeonjun is merely imaginary, and how their friendship transcends between reality and fantasy.This story is inspired by books entitled Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend by Matthew Dicks and Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger. Peter Pan and Nanny McPhee movies, and last but definitely not least, TXT discographies.
Relationships: Choi Soobin/Choi Yeonjun
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34
Collections: yeonbin_ficfest_2021





	1. prologue — take me to that secret

Choi Yeonjun has been alive for as long as he can remember, with different versions and different names each time. He was Harry for three years, Percy for less than a week, Daniel for almost four years, and now he is Choi Yeonjun, though he calls himself Atlas. He likes how Atlas sounds because he thinks it suits him, due to the fact that he’s pretty much a wanderer, and for the fact that he’s constantly moving from one place to another, from one person to another. He’s never made for something permanent; he’s never made for home. It made him sad and blue as hell at first because who wouldn’t want a _home_ , a place to come to no matter how far he strayed or how long, but he had gotten used to it. Time heals, and Time helps you to get used to something — to adapt — no matter how unpleasant the idea or situation is. It’s the same concept for Yeonjun, and though it hurt for the first few times around because he simply couldn’t understand how things worked for him, he is okay now. He understands, and he has come to accept that that’s just how things are for beings like him. He has no say in that matter anyway.

The thing is, he has been Choi Yeonjun for a quite some time now — or six years to be precise, the longest one yet — that at times he forgets that he is Atlas all along. If it wasn’t for the friends of his kind, he would’ve definitely forgotten that he is Atlas all along. Therefore, to remember that his life as someone else is short-lived, he came up with the name Atlas, and that has become the name he uses whenever he introduces himself to any new counterpart. He used to think getting to know other beings from his world was pointless, since they don’t last for long anyway, but that thought changed over time, too. He lives every day to the fullest — as if it’s his last — cherishing every moment and everyone because while everything else leaves and goes, memories stay until the end of time. Yeonjun has a lot of friends — some don’t exist anymore but some still do — and new friends keep coming to replace the dead and gone, and he remembers them all.

For Yeonjun, things keep changing, and _he_ keeps changing; nothing is constant and permanent. It’s ironic how his _constant_ is _changes_. However, despite the constant changes in his life, one thing that remains the same is Choi Soobin.

In Choi Soobin’s life, he is Choi Yeonjun. Yeonjun was seven and Soobin was six when they first met, and thanks to Soobin and his mind-blowing creativity, Yeonjun looks the best compared to the rest from his world — at least he likes to think he does. He has two arms, two legs, and a round face with a pair of coffee-coloured eyes, pointed nose, a pair of dusky pink plump limps, and his round cheeks full. He has messy, jet-black hair that he has to constantly fix over and over again, and he has grown taller over the years. He grows up accordingly to the scientific facts, and he looks just as exactly as how any other thirteen-year-old boys would look like, probably a bit handsomer and smarter, and he’s just as real as they are.

At least, Yeonjun likes to entertain the idea that he is.

Because to Choi Soobin, Choi Yeonjun is realer than any other person that he knows, and to Yeonjun, that’s what matters the most.

Because to Choi Soobin, Choi Yeonjun is _more_ than just an _imaginary friend_ , and in that sense alone, he is _not_ imaginary. He is real, and he is just as real as everybody and anybody else.


	2. part 1 — this place is our start line

Choi Yeonjun doesn’t have a lot to say about his previous companions, but it’s not the case when it comes to his current companion, Choi Soobin. In fact, the said boy gives him a lot to say, something that catches him by surprise because Soobin, at first glance, doesn’t seem to be such a person who would leave quite a huge impression on somebody. However, having spent his life with him for six years now, with his vocabulary expanding, Yeonjun figures he has a lot to say about a boy named Choi Soobin.

Choi Soobin is the only human person that can see Choi Yeonjun, as vivid and as clear as possible, as if he was a human, too. His parents called Yeonjun an imaginary friend, and he dislikes it whenever they called him that. It shouldn’t matter, and it shouldn’t bother him because that’s what _he_ is, and it shouldn’t matter because Soobin has never let the fact that he’s merely imaginary to be a barrier for the two to be the best of friends. It shouldn’t matter because though it is the truth, Soobin has only seen Yeonjun, and not the truth. Yeonjun figures that truth hurts and reality bites, but in all honesty, he realises that he needs to be real only to Soobin and not anybody else, so that’s that. Only to Soobin alone is enough, because he exists for as long as Soobin _believes_ in him. Yeonjun doesn’t need Soobin’s parents to believe in him. He doesn’t need Soobin’s favourite teacher, Ms. Jung, to believe in him. He only needs a person to believe in him to exist, and in this case, it’s Choi Soobin. He doesn’t mind being imaginary to the rest, for they don’t matter anyway. Only Soobin does.

Choi Soobin is probably one of the most magnificent, brilliant twelve-year-old boys to ever exist. He has a pair of eyes that is as dark as the midnight sky, but unlike how cold it is during midnights, his eyes are warm — just as warm as the summer shine. Sometimes, they twinkle, too, whenever Soobin smiles (though Yeonjun considers it to be a rare occasion), and it reminds Yeonjun very much of the stars. He has a small, button nose just right above his dusky pink lips, his cheeks round and full with a light tint of pink that’s, in Yeonjun’s opinion, a perfect complement to his unfairly fair skin. He has a pair of dimples on the edges of his lips so prominent even without him smiling, deeper when he’s smiling. His black hair soft and silky that Yeonjun manages to tear each strand apart just by looking. He’s tall, too, a few centimetres taller than Yeonjun in which he overtook his height when they were eleven. Yeonjun doesn’t tell but Soobin has always been cute in his eyes, but never cuter than him, of course.

Choi Soobin is also someone that Yeonjun considers to be a beauty with brain. He’s bookish smart, and he’s wise-smart — a combination the imaginary finds rare — and he’s extremely good in Mathematics (though he complains about the existence of the said subject every now and then). He plays Chess and Scrabble in his free time, and though he’s good enough to represent the school in annual competitions, he never does. He reads a hell of a lot, and he always has a book in his hands, and his vocabulary is just as huge and as limitless as the universe from reading a little too much. He never mentions it, and Yeonjun thinks he doesn’t know nor notice, but Yeonjun always catches some girls — and boys — in his homeroom staring at Soobin for a tad too long, and it doesn’t take a lot of Yeonjun’s brain cells to connect the dots together. They have a crush on Choi Soobin, and for some reasons, Choi Yeonjun understands why.

However, despite all the qualities that almost make him beyond perfect, Soobin is unfortunately colour-blind. It’s known as Complete Achromatopsia, a word so foreign Yeonjun had trouble pronouncing when the boy introduced the word to him. It’s bad, because it’s a condition that allows Soobin to see the world only in black, white and shades of grey. It isn’t genetically inherited, and though it is generally uncommon, Soobin told Yeonjun that he has long accepted that perhaps he was born on the unlucky side of the scale. On his sixth birthday, before he blew the candles off, he made a wish: to see colours. The same night, before he drifted off to dreamland, he imagined having a best friend, an older figure that he could count on anytime — hence why Yeonjun is a year older — come hell or high water, and just like that, Choi Yeonjun popped into existence. As simple and as innocent as that. What caught both of them off-guard is the fact that Soobin started to colours, but only when Yeonjun is around. Soobin came into a conclusion then: perhaps he isn’t as unlucky as he thinks he is.

Soobin told his parents about Yeonjun, almost too giddily and proudly, and how he has started to see colours through him, and he lived with the innocence close to every fibre of his being. However, it’s only around two years later that he learnt that his parents had never trusted him at the first place. Yeonjun thinks that’s what differs an adult and a kid. Kids believe in magic, and miracles; adults don’t. Nevertheless, come to think of it, at the end of the day, Yeonjun _knows_ he’s simply imaginary whose mere existence doubtful and questionable, so that’s that. Soobin frowned deeply when he found out — an expression on Soobin that Yeonjun found himself hates — and so he told the boy that it was okay, because it really was okay. Yeonjun, however, could tell that it _hurt_ Soobin in some ways, though he concealed it almost too well with his smiles that he offered to him from time to time. The thing is, Soobin’s smiles are all too beautiful that even his fake ones seem to be convincing. Yeonjun knows better though. Anyway, after the day he found out that _even_ his parents lie, Soobin started to talk lesser (not that he talks a lot to begin with), and thin line began to grace his lips more often than not that looking at him almost hurt Yeonjun every damn time. He became distant — almost ungraspable and unreachable — and he drew a line that nobody could cross _initially_ , a line that nobody _dares_ to cross _eventually_. Soobin kept Yeonjun safe inside the line though; he still does.

A few days before his seventh birthday, they learnt that his parents were getting a divorce. The silence was loud, the crash louder — a calm before the storm. Yeonjun expected Soobin to be the storm, to break and to cry and to wreck everything there was, but he perceived the news rather too calmly it was almost scary. His face remained stoic, eyes distant and icy cold. It seemed as if he was there, and yet he wasn’t. For a moment, Yeonjun thought that Soobin had stopped existing altogether. After all, he was only seven — so little and he had to carry the news that was huge and heavy on the hunch of his back. He felt sorry for the boy for he had to grow up before it was time; he didn’t want to, he was _forced_ to. Yeonjun figured that it must’ve been terrifying for Soobin to witness something that he thought was so solid suddenly collapsed pathetically to his feet. A few nights after, the two eventually figured that it wasn’t really a castle after all. It was, sadly, only a house of cards. The imaginary asked the boy why he didn’t cry, or at least react _emotionally_ , to which Soobin answered with a quiet, “I’ve seen it coming.”

“Just because you’ve seen it coming, doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt,” Yeonjun countered.

“ _Oh_ , it hurts. It does. It really does. But, I got this.”

Choi Soobin really did get it, but Yeonjun couldn’t help noticing that his tiny frame somehow slumped forward from time to time as if he was carrying the weight of the world as well as the unfortunate circumstances along with him — _within_ him. He carried himself well though; he still does. The whole divorce process was painfully draining and unnecessarily long that his parents, along the way, _emotionally neglected_ him. Yeonjun knew Soobin’s naturally quiet, but he wasn’t particularly invisible, so why didn’t they _notice_ him? On the other hand, people around began to talk but Soobin remained unbothered, because honestly, that’s what people are really good at anyway. Soobin’s father left one winter morning, and Yeonjun thinks that when he left, he brought some parts of Soobin along with him that he’s left with a broken half. Soobin’s parents aren’t bad people; they’re just bad parents. However, even after all of that, he still carries himself well, though at times when Yeonjun looks, he sees more of a thunderstorm than a sunshine. Sometimes, it makes him wonder if it has stopped hurting him altogether, or if he has gotten used to it. Yeonjun hopes to the highest of heavens it’s the latter.

To sum it up, after that day, Yeonjun and Soobin are almost inseparable. He tries to be around Soobin as much as possible simply because he can’t bear the thought of the boy seeing the world in all but colours, and because he doesn’t want him to think that he’s alone, because he really isn’t. To never have something and is okay with it is one thing; to have something but is taken away and has to be okay with the aftermath of its absence is entirely a different thing. Choi Yeonjun’s here, and he’s here for Choi Soobin, for all of him, for all of _it_. He’s wherever that he is, and he spends almost all of his time with him, that it finally dawns on him one rainy evening that it would hurt a lot when Soobin moved on _without_ him. Yeonjun has faded into the nothingness thrice before — he remembers the process but he doesn’t remember how _painful_ it was because it’s been a while — but he knows it’s going to hurt the most this time, because he spends time the longest with a boy named Choi Soobin, and now he has grown hopelessly attached to him.

Attachment, Yeonjun learns, is a dangerous thing. Especially to an impermanent being like him. Once he’s attached, he’s doomed; he’s _doomed_ real bad, he concluded. It’s inevitable; he knew it when Soobin turned eleven — five years since he first popped into Soobin’s life — and he was still around. It also makes him appreciate Soobin and the life he has given him more and more day by day. He figures that when one knows that their time is limited and their days are numbered — a deadline of a dead end — everything becomes much more precious and valuable. Being thirteen, Yeonjun finds himself thinking a lot these days. Thoughts run wild in his head as if they’re in some sort of marathon, though he’s not sure whether they see the finishing line, or if the finishing line actually exists at the first place. He likes it though — to think. He thinks that perhaps when Soobin imagined him, he imagined him to be matured and thoughtful. Soobin himself is matured and thoughtful, and they talk about things kids around their age don’t talk about. They’re compatible just like that. Yeonjun entertains himself by thinking that perhaps Soobin had also imagined him to be smarter than he is, a guidance and a compass to direct him where to go and to figure things out, but he doesn’t know to what extent his assumption is true.

It’s midnight, and Soobin’s fast asleep on the huge bed, a planet-printed blanket draped over his body, but Yeonjun’s wide awake beside him with a book in his hands. He’s reading a book that’s claimed by Choi Soobin to be the most splendid book of the century, entitled _The Catcher in the Rye._ Yeonjun reads a lot — a habit he developed from hanging out with the drooling boy a little too much, and he thinks by far, it’s his favourite book, too. It really is, that he wishes that Holden Caulfield wasn’t fictional and that he was another best friend of his. The fictional character seems to understand a lot of things — things that Yeonjun is yet to understand — though his thoughts messy and all over the place. Soobin once told him that his favourite people are ones who read. He thinks that people who read, more often than not, always have something to give, and Yeonjun thinks that’s one of the reasons why he started to pick up reading as a hobby. He wasn’t, still isn’t, sure of what Soobin meant by _something_ , but he likes the idea of being someone who has something to offer, too. After all, it’s only nature for people to wish to be someone they’re yet to be; Yeonjun’s the same.

Yeonjun flips the page as Soobin’s light snore accompanies his reading, and as he reads, he wishes that before he _dies_ , he has given something to someone, too — or precisely, _to Choi Soobin._

Most of the times when Soobin’s at school, Yeonjun will join him in the classroom.

Learning is strangely fun, Yeonjun thinks, and he likes it how there’ll always be something new and more to learn every single day. His classroom is located on the second floor at the end of the school building, in between the lab and the music room. There are twenty-five students altogether in his homeroom, and while Yeonjun considers that to be a small number, none of the kids is a friend of his. Not that he minds to be the only person Soobin considers to be his friend, but Yeonjun somehow wishes that the boy would open up and befriend his classmates. These people aren’t bad kids, from what he observes, and he thinks that they’d get along well, albeit the fact that they’re too loud and Soobin’s way too quiet. Perhaps, Soobin would get better, too, because more often than not, people get better when they open their hearts. As far as he knows, of course — not that he knows a lot anyway.

Yeonjun’s now sitting on top of an unoccupied desk at the back of the classroom, a few tables away from Soobin who’s focused writing notes in his book, and though he loves learning in general, today he has his eyes out of the window instead. The kids are having World History, Yeonjun’s personal favourite, but the scenery out is far more interesting at the moment. Yeonjun shivers as he hugs himself closer; it’s almost the end of autumn, so the air is chillier than it was in the beginning. Soft, white clouds hang loosely from the greyish sky, while the sun is shining dully at the distant horizon. Cold breeze carries the crunchy brown leaves every now and then, and Yeonjun’s eyes follows one each time. He can hear the faint, yet lively sound of birds chirping, too, and it almost lulls him to sleep. It looks like it’s going to rain soon, or so he hopes, though in overall it’s a very rainy autumn this year, just as much as he prefers. Unlike Soobin who enjoys the heat, Yeonjun prefers the cold. He loves rain, and the snow though he thinks it’s just too much, _too_ cold. He also has this strange obsession over thunderstorm, one that he fails to understand because what’s there to like about something that causes accidents to happen and things to collide.

Soobin understands, however, because he thinks one doesn’t always need reasons to love something.

In school, Yeonjun will always try to lessen his interaction with Soobin to the bare minimum. That’s because, a few years ago when the boy was still in primary school, some kids caught Soobin talking to _himself_ — when in fact he was talking to Yeonjun — and they started to call him names: loser, creepy, freak, and many more that Yeonjun’s more than glad to forget. It started between the people in his homeroom, before it spread out to the whole school. He wasn’t bothered at first though Yeonjun tried to rationalise and came up with the suggestion that he should stay at home whenever Soobin was at school, but he refused. It finally took a toll when they began to doodle on his desk and locker with bad words that kids at that age aren’t supposed to say that it eventually bothered him. He wasn’t particularly sad or depressed, no; he was rather annoyed and angry because he felt as if the words were directed more for Yeonjun than himself. The truth is, when you’re a kid, nothing much matters — or so it is to Soobin — except that Yeonjun matters to him way more than he has ever admitted. They compromised, and they came to an agreement that he’d go to school with him, but they’d keep the interaction just as little as possible. That works well for around five years now.

As Yeonjun stares at the openness of the sky, he feels a tap on his shoulder. It startles him, a hand moves its way across his chest reflexively, because none of these people is able to see him, until he turns his head to the side, and is met with a toothy grin that belongs to none other than Beomgyu. A relief sigh finds its way out of Yeonjun, a smile spreads across his lips.

“Gyu!” Yeonjun exclaims, voice a pitch higher as he reaches out his hand to do their signature handshake, which consists of complicated gestures Soobin failed to follow when he introduced it to him.

Beomgyu is another best friend of Yeonjun; a friend of his kind. He’s a companion for one of the kids in Soobin’s class, Kai. He looks humanly like Yeonjun does, though Yeonjun thinks that he’s not as handsome as he is — he’s a second close. He has a pair of doe eyes that turn crescents whenever he smiles and laughs, chiselled nose, dried and chapped lips though he consumes a lot of water, slight dimples on his cheeks. A bunch of black hair on his round head reminds Yeonjun very much of tapioca pearl, an additional topping in his favourite milk tea. His voice is rough on the edge, a distinct one that Yeonjun will recognize anywhere, though he happens to be younger than Yeonjun. He told him once that Kai’s father had died in an accident when he was only four; hence to cope with the loss, Beomgyu appeared, and it has been eight years since then. In their world, Beomgyu is considered to be ancient — a fact he used to dislike so much. It doesn’t matter anymore though. He’s grateful he’s lived for so long.

“Winter is approaching; I’m so excited,” Beomgyu says as he too settles himself on the desk next to Yeonjun, facing the window.

“Me too,” Yeonjun replies in the same enthusiasm. “Though I like autumn best and now I have to wait a whole year for the next one to come.”

“Time flies quickly these days, don’t you think so? It’s going to be autumn again before you know it.”

“Well, that’s true. But, I still have to wait, and I hate waiting though I’m certain it’s coming one way or another,” he says, almost whining as he rolls his eyes, “Anyway, what’s up with Kai? He’s zoning out.”

At that, Beomgyu’s eyes land on the said boy, and true enough, Kai’s clearly spacing out. He sits on the same row as the two, and though he has his eyes on the blackboard, it’s quite obvious that he isn’t there anymore. He’s not looking at the teacher; he’s looking at something that’s _beyond_ her. Somehow, the distant look in his eyes as well as the solemn expression he has on his face, remind Yeonjun so much of Soobin. In what way, he’s not sure; it only leaves quite a tug on his heartstring that he can’t ignore. For someone who’s so young, it doesn’t suit him: the look and expression. He looks rather tired and defeated, and any kid ain’t supposed to look that worn out — as if he’s done with _everything,_ that he has a long day and the only thing he wants is _rest._ The bags under his eyes are screaming for attention, and he really doesn’t think that the expression suits anyone at all. It’s the kind of expression one makes when they walk only to step onto a piece of Lego afterwards. Soobin has the same expression on his face, as if it’s his second skin. Yeonjun doesn’t know much about Kai, but he hopes he won’t have that expression for long. _Sweet, sweet Kai,_ Yeonjun thinks. He hopes it’s only temporary.

“He’s in a tough situation right now,” Beomgyu tells, voice dropping to almost a whisper as if the whole class were able to hear him, eyes never leaving his human friend. “His mother is seeing this man, which Kai and I think is a bad idea. So, to rebel against her, he started to hang out with the older kids recently. These kids, Yeonjun, they do stuffs we’re not supposed to do. I even found a pack of cigarette in his bag the other day. I’m not happy with it, and he’s not happy with the fact that I’m not happy with it. It’s plain stupid, the more I think about it. It’s good if he starts to make friends, but I told him not that kind of friends. He disagreed, and so we’re kind of like in a cold war right now.”

Yeonjun tilts his head a degree or two to the side, taking his time to come up with an appropriate reply. He knows Beomgyu means no harm, but he also knows that whatever it is that Kai is doing, it’s probably his way of coping, and people do many kind of things just so it could bring them to see another day.

“When it comes to things like that, shouldn’t we let them explore their choices by themselves? And if it’s good, then it’s good. If it’s bad, then it’s bad. They can always _reroute_ , can’t they? Besides, you’re going to be there in every step he takes and is yet to take, so I don’t see the harm in him venturing out of his comfort zone.”

Beomgyu turns his neck around, looking at Yeonjun straight in the eyes funnily, and the other finds himself _hate_ with the way he’s looking at him. It seems as if he’s belittling him, though Yeonjun’s sure it wasn’t his intention.

“They can always reroute, _yes_ ,” he nods, finally shifting his eyes from Yeonjun to the falling leaves out of the window. “But, I can’t be there in every step he takes, you know? That’s what I’m _afraid_ of. The fact that I _can’t_ be there.”

Yeonjun’s face falls, his brows come together in the middle. “Why can’t you be there?”

Beomgyu laughs easily, though it echoes sorrow more than joy. “Are you kidding me? I’m _imaginary,_ ” he admits like it’s the easiest thing in the world. It’s _not_. “I hate to say it, but I can tell I’m slipping away.”

_No way. No. No. No way._

“Gyu…” Yeonjun trails off, wanting to speak but words failed terribly to form and eventually, they only remain still at the back of his throat. He looks at the imaginary boy, and silence develops the two, thick and heavy. Beomgyu seems to be in a deep thought; his gaze fixed on the striking, brownish scenery before his eyes. Yeonjun, for some reasons, can hear how loud and chaotic his mind is at the moment and he wishes he could quiet them down all for him. It makes him wonder then: when does a child stop being innocent and start being responsible? For Kai, is the time _now_? It seems like it. Does Beomgyu really have to _die_? Why can’t Kai be responsible and Beomgyu stay alive? It’s insane. Perhaps it’s true, what he thought of before. Just because one has seen it coming, doesn’t mean it’s not going to hurt. Doesn’t mean it’ll hurt less. It hasn’t even happened, and yet Yeonjun has started to feel the pain. It’s starting to hurt; he can feel it down deep to his bone. Aching and throbbing. He wonders if it hurts for Beomgyu like how it does for him.

“Hey, where does a thought go when it’s forgotten?” Beomgyu asks out of the blue, almost absentmindedly — like a secret thought that’s spilled accidentally. His head is tilted towards Yeonjun, his eyes showing genuine curiosity. Yeonjun realises then that Beomgyu is, after all, still a kid full of wonder as well.

“I don’t know.”

“Hm. Where does a thought go when you’re not thinking about it anymore?”

“I don’t know, Gyu.”

Though Beomgyu doesn’t get the answers he wanted, a satisfied smile still finds its way to embrace him fully across his lips. That makes sense because he is a being that’s always content with what he has and gets, though all he’s got is a simple and straightforward _I don’t know._ Yeonjun would love to give the answers, but he really doesn’t have any. Perhaps it’s just too much, too huge for his small brain to think. Perhaps it’s just too early for a thirteen-year-old to figure out the answers by himself. Perhaps the questions are meant only to be pondered, not answered.

However, he would also like to tell him that perhaps the thought _dies_ when one doesn’t think about it anymore — when it’s forgotten — but he can’t bring himself to voice his opinion out. The string of words are heavy on the tip of his tongue, but it only stays there until the last bell rings — anchored and rooted. He wonders why.

It dawns on him then: he doesn’t want Beomgyu to end up like a forgotten thought.

Another thought occurs: _he_ doesn’t want to end up like a forgotten thought.

The same night, after Soobin has fallen asleep, Yeonjun finds himself continuing to read _The Catcher in the Rye_ from where he last stopped. He then comes across a quote he doesn’t think he’d be able to forget — one that Beomgyu might need as well. He’s at the part in which Holden asked if his sister, Phoebe, would like to ride the carousel. Though she refused at first with the excuse of being ‘ _too big for it_ ’, he knew all too well that she wanted to ride it, and proceeded to buy the ticket for her.

Once on the carousel, Holden noticed that the kids were trying to reach for the gold ring, Phoebe was the same. He was worried that she might fall off the ride. However, he came to a realisation that he had to let her to do it — to reach for the gold ring — and if she fell, then she fell. He couldn’t protect her forever, and sometimes kids have to learn things the hard way. The transition between childhood and adulthood is a confusing phase that one can’t help stumbling and falling anyway. It’s the only way to do it, really.

Yeonjun grabs a highlighter that belongs to Soobin from his desk at the corner of the room, and highlights the quote:

_All the kids kept trying to grab for the gold ring, and so was old Phoebe, and I was sort of afraid she’d fall off the… horse, but I didn’t say anything or do anything. The thing with kids is, if they want to grab for the gold ring, you have to let them do it, and not say anything. If they fall off, they fall off, but it’s bad if you say anything to them._

The next day, Yeonjun tells Beomgyu about the quote he found from the book he was reading, and the ecstatic boy eventually makes him tell the whole story to him. Yeonjun doesn’t know if it helps him in any way, but he really hopes it does, even just slightly. Beomgyu expresses his gratitude, and from his eyes alone, Yeonjun knows that he’s relieved to know what he just knew. Perhaps he just needed some reassurance that everything’s going to be okay, that it’s okay if Kai makes mistakes all along the way. That’s how he’ll learn; that’s how kids learn. That’s how they’re going to be responsible on themselves and the choices they make anyway.

Beomgyu promises to visit Yeonjun and Soobin when the first snow falls. He says that Soobin, Kai, Yeonjun and him should all hang out together. He adds that he has no clue how it’d work — since Soobin can’t see him and Kai can’t see Yeonjun — but he will try to figure it out.

Yeonjun tells Beomgyu that sounds lovely. He and Soobin won’t miss it for the world.

Being a kid that he is, Yeonjun trusts that promise.

He knows Beomgyu won’t break it.

Yeonjun won’t break it either.

Apparently, Kai is really hanging out with older kids three years above his grades. Yeonjun and Soobin are walking home one autumn afternoon when they catch him and the rest at the back of the school building, with cigarettes tucked in between their fingers. Translucent grey puffs of smoke filled the air, and they have hysterical laughter slipping from their mouths as their lungs blackened every seconds. Yeonjun doesn’t know what’s so funny, but they seem to be high in their own world. It’s a peculiar view, and Yeonjun thinks Soobin would agree with him. Kai’s slightly shorter than all of them, smaller, and though he has the same laughter gracing his lips, it doesn’t seem right at all.

Kai doesn’t belong there — he’s just _trying_ to. A piece of a completely different puzzle.

Beomgyu, however, only stands at the side, his face hopeless and his body helpless. His frame leans weakly against the dirty concrete, his fingers clenched tightly into a fist, his lips quiver, and his eyes bloodshot red. It’s a saddening sight Yeonjun almost throws up.

Perhaps it’s just Yeonjun, but for a moment there, it seems as if Beomgyu has turned translucent as the smoke, too. He catches Beomgyu’s eyes, and he holds his gaze. He really is turning translucent he can see the walls behind all _through_ him. The sight feels painfully familiar that Yeonjun can hear the loud breaking sound of his heart. They both know what’s going to happen — _what’s happening_. The crack within him continues mercilessly. _Crack. Crack_. _Crack._ It doesn’t stop that he thinks that Soobin could perhaps see what remains within him is just pieces, that he’s now ripped at every edge. Yeonjun wonders how broken one should be for things to be unable to break them. He figures, like Beomgyu’s questions, he won’t get the answer to it as well.

However, Beomgyu comes to school as solid as ever the next day. He confirms that the first snow will fall on the first week of December, which is only a week from now. He’s very excited for it because that also means Christmas is in the corner, and he’s contemplating whether to get Kai the latest collection of Nike shoes or a ticket to a concert of his favourite band. Yeonjun asks him how he’s going to get the money for either of them, to which he only replies with ‘ _I’ll find a way’._ Beomgyu also reveals that Kai has already apologised to him, and that he didn’t enjoy being friends with the older kids, and for that he’s going to stop hanging out with them from now on.

Beomgyu seems genuinely happy, and Yeonjun couldn’t be happier for him.

“Goodbye, Beomgyu,” Yeonjun says when the last bell rings.

Beomgyu never says _‘goodbye’_ back. Instead, he says with a wave of the hand, “I’ll see you next week, Yeonjun.”

“Say, Junnie, how do you define pure happiness?” Soobin asks, his voice low with a hint of expectation behind it.

They’re at the attic, and it’s way past his bedtime. It’s just one of the nights that he has trouble falling asleep, so they figured they’d waste time by doing something else instead. Tonight, it’s stargazing. There’s a small window on the roof, and the sky seems so much closer to them that we can reach for it, if we try hard enough. Soobin’s pretty good in Astronomy because he used to stargaze a lot with his father before, which then stopped when he left the house. They use the old telescope that he purposely left for him, and it still works wonderfully. There aren’t many stars in the airspace, and they failed to spot the moon either. That makes sense because it’s been cloudy all day and night today. Nevertheless, the midnight sky is still breath-taking, though empty and spotless. The vast universe – it still catches Yeonjun’s breath no matter how many times he looks at it.

“I feel happy now. Here, under the sky, with you,” Yeonjun answers after giving it a thought. “And it’s definitely pure.”

“That’s not the answer I’m looking for.”

“Then what kind of answer are you looking for?”

“I don’t know exactly, but I know that’s not _it_. I mean, how do you define pure happiness? The one that stays, that remains. It’s not the happiness that you get after getting good grades. Or the one you get after receiving gifts from people on your birthday. It’s the one that lasts for a long, long time. How do you define that?”

Yeonjun looks at Soobin in confusion, his lips jutted out into a pout. “I stick with my answer. I’m happy now, Binnie. I really am. And tomorrow, when I remember this moment, I’ll be happy. The same thing will happen on the next day, and all the upcoming days. I’ll be happy whenever I think of this moment, because I’m genuinely happy now,” Yeonjun explains truthfully, because for kids, it’s easier to be happy. It doesn’t take much; it’s much simpler. It gets harder the older you get though.

Soobin stares at Yeonjun intensely — as if the answer he’s looking for could be found across Yeonjun’s face — before his eyes turn tenderly soft. A smile slowly makes its way across his lips, and Yeonjun sees stars that were once belonged to the sky in Soobin’s eyes. Up close, they’re blinding, but they’re kind of beautiful, too.

“I think I’ll be happy too,” Soobin gives Yeonjun a small nod, a light smile on his lips. “Whenever I think of this moment.”

Not that it matters, but in that moment, Yeonjun really wishes they’d stay that way forever.

Beomgyu’s prediction is slightly off. The first snow of the year only falls on the second week of December.

Yeonjun eventually manages to get Soobin out of the house. Unlike him, Soobin isn’t exactly fond of snow. It’s too cold, and he’d rather spend his winter days indoors, but Yeonjun still appreciates all the days Soobin has spent outdoors with him building snowmen and making snow angels at his backyard. They go to the park a few kilometres down the street just so they can catch the first snow together. Yeonjun then tells Soobin about Beomgyu — how he is Kai’s imaginary friend, and how he is his second best friend after him. Soobin finds it strange at first, to know that there are more beings exactly like Yeonjun, but he accepts it rather well. _‘If I can imagine you and you exist, why can’t the other kids imagine theirs as well?’_ is what he said, and he wonders whether Beomgyu looks humanly, and Yeonjun tells him that he does. Soobin tells Yeonjun that there was one time he read a book, and the imaginary friend took form as a cat with horns and wings. They both conclude that kids really are creative. They’re not as creative when they grow up though, unfortunately.

They sit on the swings and watch the snow gracefully dances its way onto the welcoming ground, arms stretched out in an attempt to catch the aimless snowflakes on their gloved hands. The wintry breeze embraces them in a bone-crushing manner, and it doesn’t seem it’s going to let them go anytime soon. Their breaths pale against the numbing air, causes their noses to freeze while Soobin sneezes every once in a while. Though Soobin hates winter, Yeonjun finds it endearing how the said boy is now openly staring at the pouring sky in awe, his mouth slightly apart, his gaze intense yet tender with sparks pooling in his orbs.

Yeonjun notices that the time passes by painfully slow today. It’s as if it’s frozen because of the cold too.

They wait patiently for Beomgyu and Kai to come.

They never come.


	3. part two — the magical moments, the night sky we used to walk afraid they’ll slip away like a dream

It’s finally the last day of school before the kids are to go for a short winter break.

Choi Yeonjun accompanies Choi Soobin at school as usual. He sits at his desk as usual. The classes go on as usual. The view out is exceptionally amazing as usual. The temperature has dropped to negative degrees. Thin blanket of white spread out neatly on the ground, covering the earth with its chilly purity. Winter is no longer approaching; winter is here.

“Are you all excited for Christmas?” Soobin’s homeroom and favourite teacher, Ms. Jung, asks her students from in front of the class. Glasses on her nose bridge, small smile on her lips, twinkle in her eyes.

The kids don’t answer, but they cheer, which basically answers her question. Yeonjun cheers as well, loud and at the top of his lungs, just for the fun of it, and he catches Soobin’s eyes when the boy briefly turns around with eyes wide open, his jaw hangs low, shocked at Yeonjun’s cheeky outburst. Though quite afar, and the class’s noisy, somehow Yeonjun can still hear the soft giggle Soobin lets out before he turns back to face the teacher once again.

“Be careful during the break. Stay warm because it can be awfully cold on some days since winter is here, and most importantly, enjoy your holiday!”

Another cheer erupts, and Yeonjun has his eyes on clapping Soobin for a short while, then to Kai who’s having his head deep into the desk, unbothered and uninterested, before a sudden shudder fills his entire body. He feels uneasy, his fingers tapping impatiently on the desk, and he feels as if he has overlooked something that’s so very important.

Winter is here.

Winter is here.

Winter is here.

So, why isn’t Beomgyu here?

Somewhere during the first week of the winter break, Soobin asks Yeonjun a question the imaginary remembers that he had never asked before. The two are in Soobin’s room, cramped together on the couch, their backs rested on each of the armrest, feet intertwined in the middle as space barely exists between their skins.

“Hey, Junnie,” Soobin softly calls out as he looks up from the book he’s reading, while Yeonjun looks up from his. He raises an eyebrow, indirectly asking him to continue. “Is there any way imaginary friends can be real? Is there any way for an imaginary friend to turn into a _real_ person?”

It’s definitely a question that no human would ever ask to another human. It’s absurd and strange, making no sense in any _right_ mind. However, Yeonjun also thinks that questions — no matter how absurd or ridiculous they are — if they’re asked to the right person, will be answered anyway, in one way or another. Yeonjun stares at the ceiling as if the answer he’s looking for, or the one Soobin’s looking for, is written all over it.

“I’m not sure. I don’t hear much of it since it’s pretty much a rare occurrence,” he replies truthfully. “However, there was this imaginary friend that I had known before. She told me that a friend of hers, Wooyoung, actually turned _real_ , that all humans other than his human friend, San, could see him. She told me San believed in Wooyoung so much that somehow along the way, he ended up _not_ believing in anything else but Wooyoung, and suddenly it just happened.” Yeonjun has his head tilted to the side as he recalls the story before he trains his eyes to the boy in front of him. “I don’t know if this was all made up or the truth though.”

“So, if I don’t believe in anything else but you, you’ll turn into a real person that everyone else will believe in you too?” Soobin asks enthusiastically, eyes brimming with pure curiosity as he completely shuts the book in his hands to wholly focus on Yeonjun.

Yeonjun chuckles lowly, a small grin breaks open his lips. “Well, yes, if you put it that way. I like to think it’s the other way around though.”

“What do you mean?”

Yeonjun closes his book too. “Hm. How about this? Rather than the human not believing in anything else but his imaginary friend, what if they believe in their imaginary friend and all the rest _equally_ the same? There’s no separate idea of what’s real and what’s imaginary, because they’re all the same — a mere fact, a genuine truth, same basis of existence. Does it make sense?”

A short silence follows as Soobin lets everything sink in. “So, you’re saying instead of Wooyoung the imaginary friend, for San, he’s _just_ Wooyoung. A friend. One among many others.”

Yeonjun beams, nodding. “Yes. I mean, I could be wrong, but I wouldn’t want you to _stop_ believing in everything else just so I could exist _exist._ I would be really sad.”

“Why would you?”

“It doesn’t seem like one, but to be able to believe — to have faith — in things is one of the luxuries that the world can offer. It takes _a lot_ for one to completely stop believing in things, Binnie, and trust me, the process ain’t pretty. I don’t want the gift to be taken away from you too. I’m fine with what I am now, and I’m fine with what we are now. Things are good, and we are good.”

 _Let’s not change that because not all changes are good_ is what Yeonjun wants to say, but ends up not saying.

A few days before Christmas, Soobin and his mother decide that they should do a bit of a spring cleaning. They also get a fake Christmas tree that they plan to put up inside the house. Yeonjun loves Christmas, a whole of a lot. It’s his favourite festival, probably one of his most favourite time of the year. He enjoys seeing the bright, colourful lights against the whitest of snow, and he likes presents. Not that he gets fancy gifts every Christmas, but Soobin’s nice enough to make cards for him each year. Yeonjun makes cards for Soobin as well, though they aren’t as beautiful as Soobin’s. He still appreciates them though.

Yeonjun’s now arranging the books on the shelf in their room when Soobin comes in with a few huge boxes in his arms.

Yeonjun raises an eyebrow. “What’s with the boxes?”

“I want to throw out some old stuffs I don’t need anymore.”

With that, Soobin starts moving, and Yeonjun watches the other boy doing so from his peripheral vision. He starts with the closet. He owns a lot of clothes though only a few is his favourite. He picks out the ones that he rarely and barely uses, as well as the ones he has outgrown and puts them all in one of the boxes. He does it without a second glance, in which it makes Yeonjun wonder whether it really is that easy, or is Soobin really a good actor? When he’s done with the clothes, he continues with the shelves that hold all his prized possessions. Yeonjun watches him throwing away broken crayons and coloured pencils, as well as the skating shoes that he can’t fit anymore. He also picks up comic books — from Detective Conan to Star Wars to the Avengers — and they end up in another box. He, however, leaves all the novels and books untouched, along with a broken penny board that was given by his father three Christmases ago.

Somehow, for some reasons Yeonjun fails to comprehend, he feels bad for all the stuffs Soobin’s throwing away. He feels as if he’s _getting rid of his childhood_. However, he also knows it’s the _right_ thing to do. He’s growing up, and outgrowing some things is a part of the process. But, why does it make Yeonjun feels all blue out of a sudden?

“You know what, Binnie,” Yeonjun mutters under his breath. “Instead of throwing them away, why don’t you donate them?”

Soobin looks at Yeonjun for a moment, before he nods, eyes glistening at the thought, oblivious to the ruckus that’s happening inside of his imaginary friend.

“That’s a lovely idea!”

When Soobin agrees, Yeonjun feels as if the weight of the world has been lifted off from his shoulders, though some heaviness remain he finds it hard to breathe.

Yeonjun wonders why.

Yeonjun takes a walk in the awake neighbourhood on his own during Christmas Eve. A beanie on his head and a scarf hunched around his neck until the tip of his nose, he braves through the cold, inhaling the surreal scene before his eyes.

Soobin stays home with his family; his dad arrived around seven and he made it through dinnertime. They had quite a feast — stuffed turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, lasagne, apple pie and fruitcake. Soobin also tried making gingerbread cookies just a day before, and while they didn’t look exactly tempting, they tasted absolutely delicious. Yeonjun sincerely praised him for that, and he was on cloud nine all day long, promising that he’d bake more for him in the coming days. Yeonjun smiled brightly, liking the idea.

Yeonjun never admits aloud, but he likes it when Soobin’s father visits him. No one actually brings it up, but it’s livelier and merrier when he’s there. It’s evident on his, his mother as well as his father’s face. It’s a noticeable glow. His parents remain friends after the divorce for Soobin’s sake, so it’s not really a problem. They’re still a family no matter what, and Soobin is the bridge that connects the two adults up to these days. Yeonjun caught the parents sneaking glances at each other when they thought the other wasn’t looking during dinner, and he couldn’t help thinking that perhaps, there’s still love, though they claimed they remain in touch purely because of their son. Perhaps, after some times, they have already forgotten the reasons that drove to the divorce. That’s what Time does anyway; it makes one forget. Perhaps, what remains now is nothing, but love.

Adults, Yeonjun thinks, really love to complicate things.

Yeonjun looks up from his walking feet, and a smile immediately finds its way across his lips. The streets are alive though it’s almost midnight. Fancy, decorative lights from the houses as well as the streetlights make the night looks lovelier than it usually is. The snow dances in the shimmering lights, a ballerina conducted by the gentle wind as it piles onto one another on the open stage. The sky grows beautifully darker by seconds, the moon full and alone, and not a single star out to steal its beauty. Yeonjun wonders if Soobin still believes that the moon follows him wherever he goes. He wonders if he has it all figured out, and that the moon is just _there_ , and it doesn’t really follow him. It seems to be that way simply because it’s so far away.

He walks and walks and walks, his head hangs low as his eyes follow the movement of his feet. Until a few pairs of feet comes into his view that he has to abruptly move to the side. He looks up then, and Kai is there, with the older kids, braving the cruel cold together. Just like how he caught them before, each of them has a cigarette in between their fingers; mischievous smiles decorate their lips while their one and only set of lungs blacken with every inhales. Kai looks utterly horrible Yeonjun almost doesn’t recognize him, but his soft laughter is something that Yeonjun has heard just enough to recognize it anywhere, and that’s how he gains a second look from the imaginary boy. His hair is slightly longer than the last time Yeonjun saw him almost two weeks ago — undeniably messy and the bangs covering his eyes — and the bags as well as the dark circle under his eyes worsen. _Does this kid even sleep at all?_

Yeonjun looks around, trying to locate the only being that can explain what actually happens, except that Beomgyu is nowhere in sight. Nowhere far, and definitely nowhere near. Beomgyu sticks around his human friend all the time, and he never leaves. Kai isn’t Kai without Beomgyu either on his left or right. They’re an inseparable pair – like a package that comes together. Unlike Yeonjun who’s mobile and free to do things on his own, Beomgyu was imagined to be with Kai all the time, so he’s literally chained to his human friend. Except that he’s nowhere around his human friend anymore; he’s not walking by his side like how he always did; he’s not behind him to ensure his safety like he used to. The uneasiness that he felt as if he had overlooked something from weeks ago strikes him again. Beomgyu…

He’s not here.

He’s everywhere, but here.

He’s just _nowhere_ …

“I think Beomgyu’s dead,” Yeonjun mutters lowly, but loud enough for Soobin to hear him.

They’re sitting in the living room, on the floor and in front of the Christmas tree, all lit up and beautiful. Yeonjun reached home precisely at 12:45 a.m., and he found Soobin patiently waiting for him on the couch. He wanted to sleep, but he wanted to give Yeonjun the card he made for him first. Somehow, they ended up staring at the Christmas tree, and it’s almost 1:30 a.m. His mother is asleep; his father is too, but in the guest room.

“How do you know?” Soobin curiously asks as his finger absentmindedly pokes the ornaments on the tree.

“I saw Kai earlier and Beomgyu wasn’t with him. He was always with him. They were always together. However, he wasn’t around just now, which is impossible unless,” Yeonjun’s voice cracks a bit in the middle as if the truth refuses to be spilled. “Well, you know, unless he’s dead.”

A short silence follows. Yeonjun’s heart is surprisingly heavy though he’s sure it’s empty as hell to begin with. Perhaps, _that’s it_. Perhaps his heart is heavy out of nothingness and emptiness. It makes sense, yet it doesn’t. It’s Beomgyu’s death, but why does it feel like it’s his own? He struggles even to swallow the saliva that feels like sand against his throat. Every breath he takes is excruciatingly painful as the truth solidifies itself moments after moments.

“How does an imaginary friend die exactly?” Soobin softly asks with a gentle look on his face. It seems as if Yeonjun would break if he didn’t look at him delicately enough, and that’s not supposed to crack him open, but it does. Soobin’s face becomes blurry in Yeonjun’s eyes — a kaleidoscope of colours against the lights on the Christmas tree. Before he knows it, big, fat tears are streaming down his cheeks. They’re endless like waterfalls that the other boy has to wipe them off with the sleeves of his pyjamas. Ugly and miserable sobs spilled out from his mouth like overflowing honey, except it’s bitter Yeonjun can’t help choking at the taste that lingers uninvited on his tongue.

“I’m sorry,” Yeonjun sniffles after he stops crying. He then wipes the remaining tears on his face with the back of his hands and stare at the lights in front of him. It hurts — the colourful lights hurt for the first time.

“It’s okay,” Soobin comfortingly says, his hand softly pats Yeonjun’s back in a comfortable and soothing manner. “It’s okay. It’s really okay.”

“Imaginary friends die when their human friends don’t believe in them anymore, or when they forget our existences completely,” he finally answers, the truth bitter and reality hurts.

Soobin’s face falls right after Yeonjun finished his sentence. His hand abruptly stops before it rests around his shoulder instead. From such close proximity, Yeonjun can feel his radiating warmth, and it seeps deeply into his skin. It’s probably the warmest he’s been in a while.

“How’s that even possible? How could Kai just wake up one morning and decide that he didn’t believe in Beomgyu anymore? It doesn’t make any sense to me,” Soobin voices out his opinion, a deep frown tugs on his lips.

“It _is_ possible.”

“How is it possible?” Apparently, for a twelve-year-old Choi Soobin, it really doesn’t make sense. A chuckle escapes from Yeonjun’s mouth. Soobin is very endearing, really. He feels like he’s a parent talking to a child instead of an almost same-age friend.

“It’s possible, Choi Soobin,” he says as he reaches out to ruffle his hair. His frown deepens; it’s obvious that he doesn’t really appreciate it. “It’s possible. It’s possible, because kids grow up, you see — and they _can_ decide when they want to grow up. Sadly, for us, we have no say in that matter. Before we know it, we just _poof_.”

Soobin silently stares straight at Yeonjun, but the boy knows he has something running in his pretty little mind. After some time, Soobin determinedly says, “I won’t let _that_ happen to you; I won’t let you _poof_. I won’t let what happened to Beomgyu happens to you.”

It can’t be help, Yeonjun thinks, as a small smile cracks upon Yeonjun’s lips. Soobin and his undeniable charms in making a whole Choi Yeonjun smile under whatever circumstances like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He’s very mature, yet innocent and a little too genuine, a little angel Yeonjun wishes he’d stay that way forever. He’s too pure, too good for the cruel world, a white in all of black. His face serious without any hint of playfulness and disingenuous in his eyes. He then surprisingly offers his pinkie finger to Yeonjun. Confused, the imaginary boy asks in a tiny voice, “What are you doing?”

Without answering his question, Soobin reaches for his hand before interlacing their pinkies together.

“It’s official now,” Soobin cheekily says, his voice the brightest among all the lights, “I promise I won’t let you _poof_. I won’t let you disappear,” he smiles lovingly, warming Yeonjun from the inside out. “You, Choi Yeonjun, have my word. You have all my words.”

Yeonjun never understands how a finger so small can hold and bear such words, such promises. He never understands how people could place such a huge responsibility to something so tiny and fragile. However, in that moment, he can’t help believing Soobin and his promise that’s sealed tightly in between their fingers. He knows promises are, more often than not, meant to be broken than kept, but Soobin sounded so convincing and his eyes show genuine sincerity that he falls for it, tripping and collapsing, except that it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t hurt at all, and so he believes, because he’d rather have something to believe than not.

That night, after brushing his teeth, Soobin thanks Yeonjun for the card he made him.

“You know, Junnie,” he begins and though the room is dim, Yeonjun can easily trace the light crimson on his cheeks. “I planned to keep this a secret from you for as long as I live, but you were so upset earlier, and perhaps you still are, but I think you deserve to know how wonderful you are as a _person_.”

His cheeks turn into a darker shade of scarlet every passing second that Yeonjun finds himself adoring it.

“You know I’m colour-blind, right?”

Yeonjun nods slowly, quite unsure of where the conversation is going.

“And you do know that after you, I’ve seen the world in nothing but every existing colours there is, right?”

Again, Yeonjun nods. Soobin smiles. He smiles a lot these days. Yeonjun likes it. Soobin looks best with a smile on. He looks radiant — the brightest of colour Yeonjun’s ever laid his eyes on.

“I don’t know how that’s possible, or what that means, but I’m sure it means something. However, I still haven’t figured it out. Perhaps, I never will, but that’s okay too because not all mysteries of the world meant to be unravelled. Wait, I’m rambling…” he trails off, fiddling with his fingers, a pout on his lips.

Yeonjun holds back his laughter. If Soobin notices, he probably decides to ignore.

“What I’m trying to say is that, I _appreciate_ you. After you, I see the world in colours. I know blue, and yellow, and red. I see rainbows. It’s on you the colours are the _brightest_. Recently, I started to dream in colours, too. It’s nice… surreal, but nice. It’s like magic, you know? Your existence alone changes my world like magic — you’re _magic,_ Choi Yeonjun. I will not forget you. I mean, I don’t know _how_ to after all that, really. Thank you.”

When Soobin’s finally asleep in the expanse of Yeonjun’s lap, the imaginary silently reaches for the piece of A3 paper that lies on the bedside table — a drawing of him that Soobin finished off just a few days ago in secret as a surprise Christmas gift for him, along with a card, this year. Yeonjun stares at the graphite etched that resembled him on the paper, and warmth fills his chest at the idea of how he must’ve been occupying the boy’s mind and thought for as long as he took to complete the drawing. He shudders, realising that Soobin secluded himself from him for at least two hours per day the previous week — a whole week at that — and he thinks that’s way too long of a time for one to use to entirely think about someone else. However, he gets it. He understands. He never tells, but he finds himself thinking a lot about Soobin these days, too. But, when he thinks back, he has _always_ been thinking about Soobin — that’s the only thing that he thinks he’s truly good at anyway.

He traces his finger on the outline of Soobin’s pencil, feeling the lead beneath his fingertip, and tiny flutters soar beneath his stomach as he looks at _himself_ from Soobin’s eyes. It ain’t perfect, of course — he sees the fade remnant of pencil that had been erased, sees the bridge of his nose and the square of his jaw made up of shaky lines. He sees how the eyes aren’t exactly of the same sizes — the left one is slightly smaller than the right. It ain’t perfect; there’s a room of improvement that can be made, but Yeonjun _loves_ it more than anything.

It ain’t perfect, but it makes Yeonjun feel like giving the whole damned universe to Choi Soobin.

It’s the first Christmas gift he has ever received, and Yeonjun doesn’t tell, but he really appreciates Soobin, too. More than he has ever admitted aloud in all of his words, a whole lot more than he has ever showed in all of his actions.

“I appreciate you too, Binnie.”

Yeonjun lightly brushes his lips on the crown of Soobin’s head, and with his fingers in Soobin’s hair, his lids drooping just in time to slightly catch a smile that forms on the boy’s lips.

“I wish I could turn you into a real human, too, like San did,” Soobin says out of a blue, in a panting breath as he finally stacks a medium size snowball onto the larger one that stands flat on the lawn that’s blanketed with snow. Yeonjun, on the other hand, is scooping some snow into his hands, trying to form an appropriate size of a ball to make the head of the snowman they’re trying to build. 

His fingers abruptly stopped for a moment before he rolls the ball in his hand on the snowy ground, trying to make it bigger. His brain, however, turns into a white noise at the sudden confession from the other boy, short-circuited and numbing his coherent thoughts.

“Yeah?” Yeonjun asks, sounding hoarse as the cold air scratches his throat. He looks at the younger who’s now laying on the snow, moving his arms and legs up and down freely, making a snow angel. He smiles down to him, leaning to brush snowflakes away from Soobin’s bangs, before booping his nose playfully once, twice.

Soobin giggles at the cold on his nose, “Yeah.”

“There’s a catch though,” Yeonjun says, looking at Soobin so intently as if it’d be the last time he’d see him. He looks, memorizing every lines and curves and details, and looking at him makes him feel things. It’s good. He feels alive. When he looks at Soobin, he sees a boy who hates winter and snow, who complains because it’s _too_ cold to his liking, and yet he’s out here accompanying him when Yeonjun wants to build a snowman. Yeonjun feels alive though the trees dead and bare, and he feels warm all over though the sky pours cold, heavy snow.

Soobin doesn’t miss a beat. “What is it?”

Yeonjun shifts uncomfortably, putting the last snowball on the very top to make the head.

“I _won’t_ remember you. At all.”

Many days passed since the last time Yeonjun saw Kai; a lot more days passed since the last time he saw Beomgyu. He wonders if he’s reincarnated into someone — or something — else, or if he’s still in the realm between reality and fantasy. He figures he will never know, and that causes a burning ache tugging mercilessly at his heartstrings. It hurts more knowing that Beomgyu isn’t Beomgyu no more, that still calling him Beomgyu doesn’t even feel right, though that’s the only version he’s had the chance to get to know.

He thinks one of the reasons why he’s so affected by Beomgyu’s death is because he didn’t get to say goodbye. He did, of course, but he never received one from Beomgyu. However, Yeonjun doesn’t blame him. He knew what was coming; he only didn’t know _when_. Besides, he told Yeonjun before that he hated the word ‘goodbye’ so much, because Peter Pan once reminded to never say goodbye, because goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting. Beomgyu didn’t want to forget anything and everything. Yeonjun thinks he died way too early though, albeit the fact that he used to jokingly call Beomgyu _Ancient_ during the early days they became friends. There are still many questions Yeonjun would like to ask him; _so_ many, that he ends up wanting to ask just one: _Did you get to see winter?_

Yeonjun wonders if Beomgyu got to see winter before he went away.

Yeonjun hopes he did.

Yeonjun really hopes he did.


	4. part three — at the end of the uphill road is the start of the downhill road

It’s just one of the days when Soobin’s father would pay an out-of-the-blue visit to the house. He stays long to catch up with his son mostly, and later at night, they have dinner together. When it’s time for Soobin to go to bed, he tugs him in, draping the duvet over his body, a kiss on the head, a soft whisper of _goodnight_ being the last thing Soobin hears for the night. Yeonjun thinks it’s an endearing sight. Perhaps his parents are trying to make up for the loss time and childhood that he was forced to face at such an early age. Yeonjun sits on the couch as he watches the night unfolds deeper and leaves the room when he’s sure Soobin’s asleep.

When he reaches downstairs, Yeonjun finds Soobin’s parents having coffees together in the kitchen. They’re sitting across each other, and it seems they’re catching up with one another as well, finally having a time shared for two, and not three. He leans against the wall and watches them, listening though he’s not really sure what they’re talking about — probably adults stuffs that he barely comprehends due to the complexities. One topic jumps from one to another, their laughter breaks and echoes within the four walls of the room, exchanging shy smiles and glances when words fail to convey the messages.

They’re not his parents, but Yeonjun loves the view anyway. He thinks perhaps Soobin would love it too. He’ll tell him tomorrow.

When the silence thickens, however, Soobin’s mother is quick to break it.

“I caught Soobin talking to himself again.”

Yeonjun’s heart drops almost immediately, cold blood rushes in his veins knowing all tad too well that they’re talking about him as if he weren’t there at all.

“With his imaginary friend?”

“I suppose. It’s disturbing. He made it seemed as if he was really _there_ , you know? It won’t be this terrifying if he was still six. He’s thirteen now. He doesn’t even go out to play. Doesn’t even have friends. He doesn’t do what the rest of the kids are doing because he’s stuck with that _imaginary friend_ of his. Don’t you think we should do something about it?”

Soobin’s father remains quiet for a while, but the way he scrunches his brows and the constant tapping on the table tell Yeonjun that he’s thinking, that he’s in a deep thought. His mother is quiet too. Everything is silent, and Yeonjun wonders how it’s possible for a silence to be so damn loud. It’s screaming in his ears, knocking on his eardrums mercilessly. He hates it. He hates it. He _hates_ it. He hates how she sounded. She spoke as if Soobin is crazy, which is dead wrong because he _isn’t_. Yeonjun’s heart thumps wildly against his diaphragm, anger is bubbling beneath his chest like larva wanting to spill. Why don’t the adults do their own stuffs and leave the kids alone? Since when do they care about them — _Soobin_ — _that_ much anyway?

“I have a psychiatric friend. Perhaps… we can bring Soobin to see him anytime soon?”

“I’ll let Soobin know.”

Ever since the night Yeonjun overheard Soobin’s parents’ conversation, he’s not himself. Is that possible, he wonders: to be _something, or someone else_ rather than _himself_? Yeonjun thought it was impossible because how would one master the act of being someone else anyway, but now he’s trying his damn best to do the impossible.

Yeonjun tries to act normally, of course, like how he always did — nasal voice almost whiny when he talks about anything and everything, loud high-pitched laughs as if he had no care of the world, arms clinging almost effortlessly to everything that is Soobin — but he _can’t_ now. He has too much in his mind, in his plate, and swallowing is hard when the taste is bitter. He’s thinking a lot he doesn’t even know what to _think_ anymore _._ He’s thinking of how he could be himself once again _,_ but that’s the thing, he _doesn’t even want_ to be himself. He wants to be someone whose existence is real to everyone else, too — not just Soobin. Only then the adults would stop doubting him and the friendship Soobin and he have. He knows his worth. He knows he’s done an excellent job of being a good friend to Soobin, probably the best the boy could ever ask for. Soobin _picked_ him. Why isn’t that enough? Why _can’t_ that be enough?

Why isn’t _he_ enough?

Yeonjun thinks, his mind screaming: _Just because you can’t see me, doesn’t mean I’m not real! I’m here. I’m here. I’m still here, and I’m real!_

“Jun, you’re spacing out,” a voice so soft, one that he would recognize anywhere, an even softer touch on the arm. “I called you many times, but you didn’t hear me. What’s wrong? What’s bothering you?” Soobin waves his hand in front of Yeonjun, wearing a concern expression on his face, lips pulled into a pout.

Yeonjun stares blankly at Soobin before shifting his gaze past the boy. He suddenly realises that they’re in school — in the classroom precisely — and he’s not supposed to talk to him when they’re in school ground. Yeonjun can’t help frowning at Soobin’s thoughtless action that he unintentionally shakes his hand off him — quite harshly he should add — that Soobin’s jaw drops. The concern expression on his face is no longer around — fogging into the stuffy air before it disappears completely, leaving him looking surprised with a slight mixture of hurt. Yeonjun knows he should say something, a ‘ _sorry_ ’ at best or just anything at all, but he finds his tongue weak and paralysed it can’t even utter a sigh.

Yeonjun lets out a shaky breath, and after a moment, he manages to get himself together.

“You shouldn’t be talking to me,” he says, his voice colder and distant more than he intended to. “We’re in school.”

“It’s break time. No one is here,” Soobin’s trying to reason out, completely ignoring the burning on his skin upon being rejected by the imaginary boy.

“Still, we shouldn’t be talking. Go, before someone sees you,” Yeonjun reaches out, turns Soobin around by the shoulders and pushes him forward — anything to ensure the boy’s out from his bubble — but Soobin hardens himself and yanks Yeonjun’s hands away. Yeonjun groans loudly in frustration, startling the other though he doesn’t waver.

“ _Where_ can we talk then? I tried talking to you at home for almost _a week_ now, but you acted just the same. I’m worried about you. If there’s something bothering you, then let me know. Don’t be childish and avoid me when you know you can always talk to me about it,” Soobin sounds disappointed, upset, angry and frustrated. Yeonjun decides he hates when Soobin sounds like that. Tears are forming in his eyes — brimming on the edges and threatening to fall — and his orbs turn pale red. His teeth clenched, lips pale and white from shaking.

“Don’t be _childish_? What — you’re an adult now?” Yeonjun decides he hates the way he sounds too, but his ego overpowers him. He avoids Soobin’s eyes because with just one look, he knows he’d crumble. Everything is utterly overwhelming at this point. Why does he say things he doesn’t mean? Why does he say something else when he means something else?

Soobin scoffs. “You’re unbelievable. Ridiculously unbelievable. You remind me so much of the adults, of my parents. They don’t let me speak, which is fine. I just never thought it’d come from you. Do I have to be fine with that, too? Because damn, Jun, it hurts.”

“You should leave, Soobin. Some kids are watching,” Yeonjun says weakly after a long stretch of silence, completely dismissing what Soobin had just said. It’s true though. It’s not an excuse. Some kids really are watching from the windows. Yeonjun can’t have more thinking Soobin’s crazy, simply and plainly because of _him_ — he might _explode_.

“I don’t care,” Soobin really is stubborn. The thing is, he’s always stubborn at such an inappropriate time.

“You don’t, but I do,” Yeonjun’s reply comes through gritted teeth, firm and short.

“You’re being unfair. If there’s something wrong, you should let me know instead of keeping me wondering. Since when do we keep secrets from each other?”

“We’re not eight anymore, Soobin. I can’t tell you everything. I _don’t_ have to tell you everything,” that comes out way too harsh, and it’s confirmed to be true when a tear finally escapes from Soobin’s eye. Yeonjun heaves a sigh, running his thumb on the boy’s cheek to brush away the tear before he says, “We’ll talk, I promise. But, you should go now. Please.”

Soobin leaves after that, but not without shooting Yeonjun the coldest glare he starts to think he probably hates him. His steps heavy as he drags his feet across the room towards the door — as if he doesn’t want to leave at all — as if he’s waiting for Yeonjun to call him out and stop him from leaving.

Yeonjun doesn’t want Soobin to leave, too — he wants him to stay more than anything — but he lets him leave anyway.

Not because he wants to — he _has_ to.

Yeonjun’s interactions with Soobin drastically decrease, though he has promised that they’d talk. The thing is, Yeonjun is _terrified;_ hence, he prolongs their pain, and strangely enough, it works well — at least he likes to think it does. He avoids Soobin whenever possible and he’s grateful that he imagined him to be mobile instead of sticking around with him all the time. That gives Yeonjun time and space to sort this out. Soobin’s not happy with it. Yeonjun knows that fact because he’s not happy with it either. However, there will come a point in life that one has to do something that they don’t want to do, though they feel forced to. They’ll get hurt, but after some times, they’ll get used to it. Yeonjun learns that it has always been that way. It will _always_ be that way.

It’s amazing, yet overwhelming, how a day can change a whole of a lot. How an event can turn the whole thing around. It’s still winter, and it’s been only almost four weeks since Christmas, and yet it feels like a lifetime apart since he saw Soobin up close he could count his lashes if he wanted to. He wishes he didn’t hear what his parents said that night. If he didn’t, then their friendship would be sailing smoothly like how it always did, against the high waves, against the cruel wind. He wouldn’t have to avoid him. They wouldn’t be giving cold shoulders to each other. The silent war wouldn’t have happened. If only he had stayed in the room and read books that night. It would’ve been better for him, for Soobin, for them, and certainly their friendship.

Yeonjun wonders if it’s the time to let go.

Yeonjun pulls the coat closer to his body as the numbing air dashes by. It’s almost February now, and the cold has deepened into something he can barely fathom. The snow is inches thick and some people are busy clearing their lawns and yards to make the paths visible again. Has it always been this cold? It rains lightly, too, and while he has always loved the rain, today is the day he finds himself hating it the most. It’s freezing that he can’t even feel his legs anymore. He exhales loudly, and the breath fogs up in front of his face before the air catches it up altogether.

He hasn’t talked to Soobin for two weeks now — at least not properly — perhaps more or lesser, but he loses count. Not that it matters. What matters is the fact that he doesn’t talk to him, and he too has apparently given up in trying to mend their friendship. It’s not broken, so Soobin might not know _what_ to fix either, but Yeonjun blames none but him. Soobin knows nothing from that night, and he should’ve told him, but Yeonjun’s terrified of the truth. Besides, how is he supposed to tell Soobin without hurting him in the process? They don’t talk to each other, and while in the past it was something that they couldn’t stand, it has strangely become bearable now. Growing up, it really enables one to do things they weren’t unable to before. Yeonjun’s fine, and Soobin seems fine, too. It hurts, but that’s fine as well. It won’t hurt as much in a week or two.

Perhaps they have come to a point in which they don’t need each other anymore.

It’s probably true. The past few days, Soobin had some kids — not some, but _one_ —from school coming over. It was for a group assignment. He used to hate tasks that needed him to interact with the other kids. He made it clear. He wore his emotions on his face. People would know how he felt at the moment just by observing his facial expression. He cooperated well though. He did his parts perfectly while keeping the interactions to the bare minimum. Soobin and his high walls — they were unbreakable, but not anymore.

However, recently, Yeonjun noticed Soobin has actually tried to befriend him, a boy from his class — Kang Taehyun. He isn’t as cold and distant. Though Yeonjun knows it must be tough for Soobin to invite him to their place, Yeonjun knows he did so because he wanted to _begin_ it at his safest haven. He’s terribly awkward, but he’s _trying_. Taehyun’s trying, too, and the imaginary grows fond of him in no time. Yeonjun’s very proud of Soobin. He really is. He’s venturing out. He’s getting out of his comfort zone. He’s taking it step by step — baby steps — but that’s alright, because unlike Yeonjun, Soobin has all the time in the world, and he’s doing so wonderful at that. It must be nice, Yeonjun thinks, to simply have time.

Perhaps this is how friends grow apart. A fallout. That’s the thing about distance and time — they teach one that they can live without the thing that they thought they can’t live without. Funny thing is, they aren’t even separated by distance and time. Just a different version of reality.

Yeonjun stops walking as he looks up to the depressing sky. He closes his eyes and lets the rain hit his face like bullets, taking it all in. Now that Soobin finally has a real friend, doesn’t that mean his purpose is done? He absolutely has no idea. Perhaps only when Soobin has spent his time long enough with the new friend Yeonjun would get his answer.

“Soobin, honey, we have something that we want to talk about with you.”

The Choi family is in the living room. It’s just another rainy winter afternoon. The sky out is dark and depressing, in which it matches with the vibe and mood that fill the atmosphere between the family members. Soobin is sitting on the couch with Yeonjun next to him, his parents across him. It’s the closest they’ve been ever since the skyfall, and though they haven’t spoken to each other for quite a while now, he feels the need to be there because the tension is thick and unbearable. Yeonjun and Soobin hate confrontation. They hate it when someone says they have something that they want to talk about. It feels like they have committed a crime that they’re unaware of.

“What is it?” Soobin’s voice comes out cold Yeonjun can’t help but shiver.

“We’re just worried… are you okay?” his father begins.

“Absolutely. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I know you’ve been making friends, and that you spend time out playing a whole lot more than you did in the past…” his mother pauses for a while. “But, your father’s friend — he’s a psychiatric, Dr. Han — and we have been telling him about you… and your imaginary friend? The thing is, Bin, it’s way past the age of one usually outgrows their imaginary friend. He had also observed your handwriting, and it appeared gloomy and depressing. So, we’ve been thinking that perhaps you should—“

“What are you trying to say?” Soobin cuts her off, eyes piercing and unwavering. Yeonjun takes in a sharp breath at the sudden intervention because it’s the first time ever the boy has sounded that way to his parents.

“Don’t get us wrong. We’re not saying you’re _cra_ — that you need professional help, or anything in the lines of that, but—“

“Can we please get straight to the point?” Soobin’s voice, once again, thunders all across the dead space, startling the imaginary as well as his parents.

Yeonjun turns his head to look at Soobin, and his face is unusually pale that Yeonjun’s sure if he tore his skin apart, nothing would spill. His eyes that were always warm are deadly cold and detached. Although he appears rather calm on the surface, his hands that are slightly shaking tells Yeonjun that there’s a raging storm occurring within him. It’s scary seeing him like this. Painful, too. He then clenches his fingers so tightly that his knuckles turn white just so he can stop himself from shaking, but to no avail — he’s still badly shaking. Absentmindedly, Yeonjun reaches out, and softly, gently, he loosens the fist before engulfing his hand around his. He can’t help flinching upon their skins make contact; Soobin’s peculiarly cold. Yeonjun secures his cold one in his anyway, desperately hoping it’s warm enough for him.

“We’re just thinking that perhaps you should see him. Talk to him. He’s good. He knows what to do. He can help you.” It’s his father’s that speaks.

Soobin scoffs aloud, and Yeonjun’s heart breaks when he feels the boy’s trembling once more, his skin freezing. “Why are you transferring the task to him? Shouldn’t you be the one that I’m supposed to talk to?”

“Soobin, Binnie,” Yeonjun mutters softly, breathing life into the boy. “Calm down. I’m here. I’m here.”

“There are things that are out of our control. This is one of them. Just give it a thought, hm?” his mother pleads. She seems exhausted, or perhaps she just hates confrontation just as much as they hate it. It’s understandable. It’s suffocating in the room Yeonjun can barely breath. Thin lines on her forehead makes Yeonjun realised that she’s older than the first time he met her, and out of the blue, he feels deeply and madly sorry — for everything.

Yeonjun’s imaginary, but the effects of his existence is real he almost believes he’s _real_ — that he’s just like them. He’s _not_ like them.

He used to think he’s the solution to all Choi Soobin’s problems. 

He’s not.

He is the _problem_.

“Binnie, I’m sorry,”

The two boys are laying on the carpeted floor, side by side, as they face the ceiling full of Soobin’s glow-in-the-dark stickers. Silence falls upon them in a long stretch, and Yeonjun lets it stretch, listening intently to the rash breaths Soobin exhales before it falls into a steady, softer ones. Yeonjun turns to his side then, reaching over and runs his fingers into Soobin’s messy locks, tidying it.

“I’m sorry,” Yeonjun says again, gentler this time as if it’s meant only to be heard by his human friend.

“Was it because of my parents?”

“Yeah, I overheard them one night talking about you, and us, and I—“ Yeonjun stops mid-sentence, trying to look for the right words, “I didn’t know what to do. I should’ve told you instead of shutting you out. I’m sorry.”

Soobin catches Yeonjun’s hand that’s in his hair and interlocks their fingers together before turning to his side too, and there’s a relief that runs in Yeonjun’s vein once he sees Soobin up close like that. He counts the lashes just because he can, just because he couldn’t yesterday and all the yesterdays before. Yeonjun looks, and realises that he’s never felt at home, until _Soobin._

“Junnie,”

Yeonjun pretends he’s okay with the nickname, as if his heart isn’t doing some strange somersaults beneath his chest. “Hm.”

“Tell me more about Wooyoung and San.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Did Wooyoung ever remember San?”

Yeonjun bites the inside of his cheek. “No.”

“Didn’t San try to make him remember?”

“He did.”

“It didn’t work?”

“It didn’t.”

“Oh.”

“But they’re fine,” Yeonjun continues before the crestfallen expression could take form on Soobin’s face. “They’re fine. Happy, even. Though Wooyoung doesn’t remember.”

“ _How_? What did they do?”

Yeonjun gives out a nonchalant shrug. “They begin again.”

“Start over?”

“Start over,” the imaginary confirms, and Soobin smiles.

Yeonjun raises his free hand to Soobin’s cheek, feeling the smooth skin beneath his fingertips, trailing down until he reaches the pulse on his neck. It’s nice — the melodic beating of his heart, the blood that flows in his vein, and he realises how _messed up_ it is to find a home in someone who’s permanent, when he’s not.

“Binnie, do you still remember the day when you first called me _Choi_ Yeonjun, and not just Yeonjun?”

Soobin bites his lower lip, tips of his ears pink. “That was a long time ago. Why?”

Yeonjun smiles in adoration. “What made you start to call me that?” _Because it makes me feel almost normal, almost real. Like I’m like you._

“Because I wanted to make you feel _belonged_ ,” Soobin answers in a heartbeat, eyes closing shut as he can’t bring himself to look at Yeonjun in the eyes. It wasn’t too cheesy when he was seven, but he’s thirteen, and he wonders what changed now. “Because you told me that you’ve never felt belonged to anything, or anyone — a given to what you are. So, I thought if we had something in common, perhaps you wouldn’t feel that way anymore. I decided to share something that’s mine with you, and hoped that it’s enough. Enough to make you feel belonged. Enough to make you stay, too.”

Yeonjun feels warm, warmer on his cheeks, warmest in his heart.

“Binnie,”

“Hm.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Forgiven,” Soobin says, and Yeonjun shuts his eyes once he feels a light press of Soobin’s lips on the crown of his head. 

Soobin ends up going to see Dr. Han a few days later. Yeonjun initially wanted to tag along, but the boy told him that it’s okay, and that he got this. Yeonjun told him ‘ _okay_ ’. He also told him that he’s sorry and that he’d be waiting for him.

Promises — they really are made to be broken, aren’t they?

When Soobin and his parents are gone, and Yeonjun has the house all to himself, a huge wave of emotions finally washes all over him that he ends up collapsing on the all cold marble floor, drowning because never in his life he’s taught how to swim. The house feels gigantic and he feels tiny within the four walls, under the roof. He tries to ignore the growing pains under his chest as well as the twists and turns in his stomach, and it works for a short while, until it doesn’t.

As he sits on the floor, taking in all the waves because what _else_ he can do, all the past memories play in his mind like a broken record.

He thinks of the times of which he believed he was Soobin’s lifesaver, which made him feel as if he were some sort of superhero before, now makes him wonder whether he really was one. He doesn’t feel like one anymore. Instead, he feels as if he’s a thief who has successfully stole Soobin’s time that he could use to _grow up_. He stayed way too long when it wasn’t the plan, getting attached when it _definitely_ wasn’t the plan, and he got carried away that he forgot Soobin needs to grow up eventually. He cared so much about his own death he unintentionally neglected Soobin’s own growth, which is definitely far more important.

Yeonjun decides that Soobin needs to grow up. His parents are right; it’s way past the age of him to have an imaginary companion, and his existence is the reason why Soobin fails to proceed, to move on into another phase of his life. However, how is he supposed to tell Soobin that he should grow up, and by that, he has to _kill_ him? How is he supposed to tell him everything without cutting him open to bleed? He has had enough, and Yeonjun doesn’t want to add more to his misery. It’s all too complicated. Why are adult stuffs all so complicated?

He wipes his runny nose with the back of his hand while looking around the house, and his eyes land on the DVD player. It’s an old one — almost classic — because everyone’s using the internet to have access to movies nowadays. He walks over and puts on his and Soobin’s favourite movie of all time, Nanny McPhee. They used to watch it a lot, over and over, that they eventually memorized all the lines by heart. He doesn’t really feel like watching — just to kill time — so, most of the time when the movie is playing, he’s more in his head than in his presence. Until he hears that one dialogue from Nanny McPhee herself.

“ _When you need me, but do not want me, then I will stay. When you want me, but do not need me, then I have to go_.”

Yeonjun gets up.

He looks around the hall one more time.

He walks upstairs, goes to Soobin’s room that once belonged to him as well, to the bookshelf and he runs his fingers on the spines of the books. All his favourite books. Then, he looks around the room — his room that’s always neat and tidy — Yeonjun’s safest haven, not a home because home is Soobin, but this room is a second close. He knows he could always return to this room whenever he wanted, and Soobin would always be there. The witness to their laughter and tears. To their petty fights that lasted not longer than five minutes because losing was bad but fighting with each other was worse. To all the singing-on-top-of-their-lungs and movie marathon sessions. Their secret place, a magic island where all of their fumbling promises and secrets began. Apparently, to their growths as well. Yeonjun first saw Soobin when he was six here in this very room, and he saw him when he was seven and small, when he was eight, up until he’s thirteen and tall. He stares ahead, trying to take as many mental snapshots as he can just so he won’t forget. He wants to remember. He wants to remember this room; most of all, he wants to remember Choi Soobin.

He turns his head to the wall, and there it is, a drawing of himself Soobin gave on Christmas, framed and hangs from the hook on the wall. He wants to take it, but in the end, he doesn’t. He leaves it because none of these belongs to him anyway.

He goes downstairs again. The movie is still running, but he doesn’t feel like turning it off, so he lets it play like an abandoned movie in an old theatre.

He walks to the door. Unlocks it. A step out. Closes it. 

He runs.

He runs so fast his chest burns it’s starting to hurt.

He runs, muttering apology into the air because unlike Holden Caulfield who let Phoebe to decide for herself, he doesn’t let Choi Soobin to make a decision for himself. He apologises, and hopes the wind would bring the apology to his beloved boy.

He runs like a coward he is.

He runs.

He never looks back.

Choi Soobin returns to a home of full colours, seeking for that familiar warmth from a familiar boy, but Choi Yeonjun’s no longer around.

Choi Soobin sees colours without Choi Yeonjun for the first time, but everything is grey.


	5. epilogue — begin the magic right now

Choi Yeonjun has been alive for as long as he can remember, with different versions and different names each time. He was Harry for three years, Percy for less than a week, Daniel for almost four years, and now he is Choi Yeonjun, though he used to call himself Atlas. He liked how Atlas sounded because he thought it suited him, due to the fact that he’s pretty much a wanderer, and for the fact that he’s constantly moving from one place to another, from one person to another. He’s never made for something permanent; he’s never made for home. It made him sad and blue as hell at first because who wouldn’t want a _home_ , a place to come to no matter how far he strayed or how long, but he had gotten used to it. Time heals, and Time helps you to get used to something — to adapt — no matter how unpleasant the idea or situation is. It’s the same concept for Yeonjun, and though it hurt for the first few times around because he simply couldn’t understand how things worked for him, he is okay now. He understands, and he has come to accept that that’s just how things are for beings like him. He has no say in that matter anyway.

The thing is, he has been Choi Yeonjun for a quite some time now — or eleven years to be precise, the longest one yet — that at times he forgot that he was Atlas all along. Eventually, he dropped _his_ name altogether, and sticks with Yeonjun. He introduces himself as Yeonjun to any new counterparts, and while he used to think getting to know other beings from his world was pointless, since they don’t last for long anyway, that thought changed over time, too. He lives every day to the fullest — as if it’s his last — cherishing every moment and everyone because while everything else leaves and goes, memories stay until the end of time. Yeonjun has a lot of friends — some don’t exist anymore but some still do — and new friends keep coming to replace the dead and gone, and he remembers them all.

For Yeonjun, things keep changing, and _he_ keeps changing; nothing is constant and permanent. It’s ironic how his _constant_ is _changes_. However, despite the constant changes in his life, one thing that remains the same is Choi Soobin.

In Choi Soobin’s life, he is Choi Yeonjun. Yeonjun was seven and Soobin was six when they first met, and thanks to Soobin and his mind-blowing creativity, Yeonjun looks the best compared to the rest from his world — at least he likes to think he does. He has two arms, two legs, and a round face with a pair of coffee-coloured eyes, pointed nose, a pair of dusky pink plump limps, and his round cheeks full. He has messy, jet-black hair that he has to constantly fix over and over again, and he has grown taller over the years. He grows up accordingly to the scientific facts, and he looks just as exactly as how any other eighteen-year-old boys would look like, probably a bit handsomer and smarter, and he’s just as real as they are.

At least, Yeonjun likes to entertain the idea that he is.

Because to Choi Soobin, Choi Yeonjun is realer than any other person that he knows, and to Yeonjun, that’s what matters the most.

Because to Choi Soobin, Choi Yeonjun is _more_ than just an _imaginary friend_ , and in that sense alone, he is _not_ imaginary. He is real, and he is just as real as everybody and anybody else.

Choi Soobin and Choi Yeonjun are both seventeen and eighteen now.

The thing is, Choi Yeonjun left Choi Soobin when he was fourteen. That was four years ago.

Yeonjun’s not supposed to make it to fifteen, let alone eighteen.

He was supposed to fade away. Into the nothingness. Into the emptiness. Into the unknown.

However,

Yeonjun never fades.


	6. epilogue II — at the end of the maze, at the other side of the mirror, find me

Yeonjun wakes up from his deep slumber precisely at 9:46 a.m. The light ray that seeps through the off-white curtain is blinding he has to squeeze his eyes a couple times before they’re able to get used to the bright surrounding. He pushes himself up and leans comfortably against the headboard. He yawns and stretches, his bones popping and cracking as he realises that he had just had a good, somewhat long sleep. He stretches again, and another yawn escapes his lips.

“Yeonjun?”

Startled, he immediately gets up from the bed out of reflex. Stand before him is a tall boy whose black hair soft and silky that Yeonjun manages to tear each strand apart just by looking. He has a small, button nose just right above his dusky pink lips, his cheeks round and full with a light tint of pink that’s, in Yeonjun’s opinion, a perfect complement to his unfairly fair skin. Dimples so prominent at the edges of his lips, and when he smiles, his dimples sink deeper. This is his first time seeing him, but when he catches his midnight eyes, he feels like he knows him, way before this. Like in his past life. A lifetime ago, if there’s such thing. It doesn’t make sense, but it does, somehow.

“Choi Yeonjun?”

The boy smiles, eyes twinkling that reminds Yeonjun very much of a star, and as their eyes meet, Yeonjun sees a flash of familiarity behind his smile. It aches in his chest; it burns at the back of his memory, but he barely notices.

Yeonjun looks away, trailing his eyes somewhere else up to the ceiling full of glow-in the-dark stickers, down to the wall at the corner, only to see a drawing of a boy who reminds him so much of himself — only that he looked younger — neatly framed and hangs against the wall, just right beside the door. He squints his eyes, and he _knows_ it’s him, but _how?_ Hair at the back of his neck stands, cold shivers run through his spine, and he feels like running away from the unfamiliar sense of familiarity.

“Sweetheart, who are you talking to?” a woman around her mid-forties appears from behind the boy. She has almost the same features as the boy, so Yeonjun assumes she’s his mother. She then shifts her gaze from her son to Yeonjun with a questioning look, and only then he realises how bizarre and strange the whole situation is. First thing first, _why_ is he here? _How_ did he get here? _What_ is he doing here? _How_ on earth does he know his name? _Where_ even is he?

“Excuse me, but who are you?” the woman asks, confused, looking at the tall boy and Yeonjun back and forth. Yeonjun wants to tell that he’s just as confused as she is.

“Mom, this is Yeonjun. Choi Yeonjun. He’s my friend, an _old_ friend,” the boy interrupts before he could even panic. He turns to look at Yeonjun after that. “Junnie, this is my mom.”

Yeonjun’s stomach churns at the nickname.

A short, awkward silence follows. The boy looks calm, as if the whole thing is normal. It’s absolutely _not_ normal. Yeonjun’s still wrapping his head around what’s happening. How are they _friends?_ Is he supposed to _know_ him? _Where is he exactly_?

Then, with a beautiful smile that Yeonjun somehow recognizes, that feels a tad too familiar, the boy continues,

“And I’m Choi Soobin.”

* * *

hello! i hope you had such an enjoyable read despite the fact that it’s quite angsty, but i hope the ending somehow makes up for the rollercoaster ride. kudos and comments are always appreciated, and please do leave me feedbacks because i would really love to know what you think of the story. you may also leave feedback on twitter at @ateezimnida hehe if you’d like to read more yeonbin from me, do check out [little do you know](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26318968/chapters/64087981) and [the moment i saw you (the magic began)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26628790/chapters/64931977) here. once again, thank you so much for reading! <3


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